


we love you more than you know

by madanach



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't you think it's unbelievable?" Basti asks, with the earnestness of the completely wasted. "I think it's unbelievable. I think I won't believe it ever."</p><p>"Ever?" Lukas asks. He thinks that's hard to believe. Hah. Believe. "That's funny," he says, and then, "Whoops, was that out loud?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	we love you more than you know

**Author's Note:**

> i know drunk post!WM schweinski fluff is standard issue these days, i have no excuses, what fucking idiots tho amirite
> 
> i'll post something other than a tiny oneshot one day? possibly? probably not idk

"I can't believe this shit," Basti says, for the third time.

"You've said that three times," Lukas says, staring at the ceiling wonderingly. It's not the most necessary comment in the world, but right now, with his head buzzing pleasantly with their post-win celebrations, he thinks it sounds pretty good - and surprisingly coherent, considering how his speech was slurring a mere thirty minutes ago.

"Don't you think it's unbelievable?" Basti asks, with the earnestness of the completely wasted. "I think it's unbelievable. I think I won't believe it ever."

"Ever?" Lukas asks. He thinks that's hard to believe. Hah. Believe. "That's funny," he says, and then, "Whoops, was that out loud?"

"You're smashed," Basti says, and giggles.

"So're you, shut up." Lukas turns his head to the side just in time to catch Basti rolling over to muffle an undignified snort in the mattress, tangling himself in the duvet cover in the process. Lukas doesn't remember Basti getting under the blankets, but it doesn't surprise him - Basti's always freezing. He uses it to his advantage in summer practices when his hands are the only cool thing on the field, sneaking them under Lukas' shirt and making him jump. Lukas teases him for it, sometimes. He's a Bavaria boy, he should be used to the cold.

"How were you going to be a skier like that?" Lukas asks.

"What?" The question is muffled - Basti's face is still smushed into the blankets. "What the hell are you talking about, Luki?"

"You, stupid." Lukas pokes Basti in the side - Basti makes a wounded noise and curls into a ball in response. "You're always cold."

"I'm not cold now. We're in Brazil."

"Heh. Yeah." Lukas smiles at the thought, looks back up at the ceiling. "We're in Brazil."

"For the World Cup," Basti adds. "Which we just won."

Lukas feels a broad grin break out over his face with a curious sense of disassociation. Did he just win the World Cup? He's not sure. He thinks he should be less drunk before he's the champion of anything.

"We met Rihanna," Basti continues dreamily. "Chancellor Merkel gave me a hug."

"You bled everywhere and kissed me in front of the whole stadium," Lukas says, smiling happily at nothing in particular. "You were ridiculous."

"Good?"

"Good ridiculous?"

"Good kisser."

"Never anything but," Lukas says, and lets his head fall to look at Basti again. Face pulled out of the blankets, he's looking at Lukas with an expression of pure contentment, head half-off the pillow and falling closer to where their shoulders are touching.

"Whose bed are we in?" he asks.

"Yours, I think," Lukas says, scrunching up his forehead. "Or mine. Maybe."

"Miro's?"

"I hope not. He'd kill me."

"Sleep here. If it's my bed, I mean."

"Alright."

They lay in silence for a moment, and then Lukas sighs deeply.

"Ein Sommermärchen," he says, softly. The alcohol still hums quietly in his bloodstream, but the bed and the cup and the medals around their necks and Basti next to him are as clear as they've ever been. He remembers Basti as a comet on the pitch, hair peroxide-blond, half talent, half rage. Did that anger go away, or is it one of those things that can never really die?

"We were kids," Basti says. Lukas can hear the sleep in his voice. When he looks at him, he sees gray creeping up his temple, the faint scars from old acne, the newer ones from an Argentine's fist. "Ten years is crazy."

"Yeah," Lukas says. "Was it worth it?"

Basti rolls onto his side to look at him properly, incredulity written in every line of his face. "Really?"

Lukas shrugs. "I mean. Yeah."

"Ten years was nothing," Basti says matter-of-factly, his soft smile at odds with the words coming out of his mouth. "Today was worth a thousand."

"You would've played a thousand years for this," Lukas states.

"Hundred thousand. Millions." He looks at Lukas again. "Happily," he adds.

Something heavy and swelling makes its way up Lukas' throat, rests under his tongue like a promise.

"You?" Basti asks. Lukas finds it incredibly unfair that he's the one speechless. He prides himself on his composure, even when intoxicated. Then again, he's never won a World Cup before, and Basti's never looked at him quite like that.

"I'm not ready to be done," Lukas says, and the honesty chokes him.

"That's good, 'cause we're not," Basti says, and there, those words, Lukas knows they're for him and Lukas knows no one else would have said it quite like that because with the others there's a choice and with Basti he's a given, and Lukas thinks if he starts to cry in a hotel bed in Brazil in the middle of the night it'll be at least a little bit justified by the way Basti reaches out a hand and cups Lukas' throat, right around the vocal cords, ring finger finding his pulse.

"I'm alive," Lukas reminds him, holding back tears, and Basti leans forward, presses his lips to Lukas' temple, says, "God, I'm so fucking glad for that."


End file.
